Some Days
by Separator
Summary: A bad day leads to an impromptu road trip, an alcohol binge and a chance encounter. Maybe there are still some silver linings out there, ready for the taking; lord knows there are enough clouds in Caroline's sky. Set at the end of season 2.


**Note: **This is set during the end of season two. I have no exact episode in mind, but it is after Klaus re-enters his own body and before the breaking of the curse.**  
**

This thing started as an angry rant that turned into a story (which is highly cool, since hardly anything I write ever turn into something story-like). It is told in the way you might tell a story you want to distance yourself from a bit. It's clearly told by the point of view character, but not in first person. I hope it makes some kind of sense.

Then we have: I know how to spell the names, but the story is not narrated by me - it's narrated by Caroline.

.

* * *

.

Some days life is just _completely_ against you. When all your plans fall through. When your friends are busy having boyfriends and hanging out with their boyfriends and _kissing their boyfriends_ and you are _all_ alone. And it's raining and you forgot your umbrella so your hair gets all limp and wet as soon as you step outside.

(Some days you may be just _a little bit_ over-dramatic. Maybe. But, even knowing this, things still feel just as bad.)

So, some days you just need a drink. Because it's not like you can distract yourself by planning the next big school event. (That meeting got cancelled. Guest lecture in the gym (meaning that there was no cheerleader practice earlier either); which you (of course) were late to, and there were no seats left when you arrived and you bit your lip to not punch something in frustration, but kind of failed (of course) and had to compel two guys who happened to walk by to not remember how that quite large dent had mysteriously appeared in the wall.)

Unfortunately, your ex (who broke up with you because he apparently didn't like you enough to see past what you are) works at the only place which fits within the overlap of the "places where you can hang out without attracting attention" and "places that serve alcohol" circles in the Venn diagram that is Mystic Falls. And some days lately (most days; including today) you just don't want to deal with him.

Therefore you sometimes have to go to extreme measures to just be able get a bit drunk and have the opportunity to feel adequately sorry for yourself. Therefore you may even have to leave town to avoid bumping in to your mother, who gets to hear of drunken minors _disturbingly_ quickly, unless you are willing to compel the entire room to keep their mouths shut. (Which you are _not_; that sounds _far_ too similar to work for a day such as this one.)

So you get in your car and start driving with the intention of stopping at the first roadside place (outside of the jurisdiction of the Mystic Falls' sheriff's department) that serves alcohol. But you pass the first place, the second one and the (third, fourth, fifth, sixth) seventh one. Driving puts you in a trance that vanquishes all thoughts from your head (and it's even legal (as opposed to the drinking); well, it would be legal if you weren't pressing the gas pedal quite that far down).

When darkness falls over the road, and you notice the late hour, you ponder your next move. You could turn around – and deal with your mother and your friends (and their _damned_ boyfriends) and school and it just doesn't sound all that appealing. You _could_ also stop at the eighth place (whose neon sign is winking seductively at you in the distance), get really smashed, sleep in your car and push all further decisions onto tomorrow. No. 8 is apparently called "Roadside Haven". A sign? (Divine rather than neon.) It doesn't really matter; the turn signal flashes and you are removing the key from the ignition before the thought of stopping have even finished fully forming.

Sometime in days past someone decided that it was fun to throw stones at the lights in the parking lot, and now the trucks loom large and dark around you. Having been a vampire for quite some time now still hasn't suppressed lifelong instincts, and you shiver and hurry towards the pool of sodium-yellow light that marks the door of the (hopefully disreputable enough to serve minors without too much fuss) establishment.

You slump down on a bar stool and order the first alcoholic beverage your eyes fall upon. (You normally like drinks a bit more girly than Absolut Vodka. You like the tropical drinks. The fruity ones. Sweet flavours – pretty colours. But, though you are slow and tired after the hours of driving, you don't want to wait today. You also don't entirely trust that the bearded and sour looking bartender could manage a coconut-mango mojito.) There isn't even any need for compulsion; the bartender just eyes you wearily and fetches the bottle without a word. Another day you might have given the glass a suspicious inspection before picking it up (_Is that a fingerprint on the rim?_), but not today. The liquid slides down your throat as smooth as a firestorm. You make a face and try to put the fire out with more of the same. It doesn't work. Naturally.

After a few large gulps (read: quite a few medium sized drinks) you tear your eyes from the scarred wood of the bar and glance around without deeper interest. The sparse light fights to penetrate the heavy atmosphere of the room. It's dark (like your mood – _so cliché_), stale and it smells like old food and exhaust fumes. The people (truckers) populating creaking chairs and slightly tilting tables (propped up with napkins or pieces of cardboard to try to, unsuccessfully, even them out) keep swaying softly back and forth, like seaweed, or bed sheets drying on a clothesline in a gentle breeze – or maybe that's just your eyes. The edges of the room seem quite fuzzy when you think about it; the ceiling lights have this yellowish aura that you didn't notice before. _Whatever_. Getting drunk was kind of the point of this little trip.

The door swings open. This in itself is not a particularly notable event; though there aren't a lot of customers they do come and go quite frequently. (A smoke. A leak.) But this time something drifts into the stuffy room along with the brief sweetness of cool night air. _Blood__._ The scent of Blood snakes its way from the door behind you and stiffens your back.

Your eyes lift from the bar and stare straight ahead; past the vodka bottles and the wall and the parked trucks outside. Actually – you see nothing. The only sense left is your sense of smell. You have eaten during your drive, but the reaction is instinctual. And you might be a bit intoxicated, which is not doing anything to improve your self-control. Not daring to turn around you down what is left of your drink in one swallow (because more alcohol must be the solution, clearly).

The Blood comes closer, its confident footsteps cutting through the low-key mumble in a weirdly distinct way. It places its hands on the bar and leans slightly forward; you can't help but glance – a man's hands; no red on them. The scent is not really overwhelming in itself, had it been cologne you would hardly have noticed it; but it is sweet, red, skull-splitting, searing Blood and you fist your hands.

Apparently it managed to catch the bartender's attention and order while your mind was otherwise occupied, because a glass of bourbon has magically appeared on the bar two o'clock of your position. The Blood sits down on the stool next to you and slowly raises its glass. Your eyes are stuck. You tell them to let go of that frickin' glass and mind their own business, but you helplessly follow it to its destination. There your attention is caught by something else. _My god, those lips are amazing_. Those lips stretch slightly in an amused glint of a smile, before the Blood turns its head and lets its blue gaze sweep over you. You bite your own lip as all thought of proper (non-staring) behaviour is blown away.

The rest of him is quite amazing too. Rough stubble surrounds that subtle raspberry smirk. His casual posture (with one elbow still on the bar) compounded with his plain long sleeved shirt and the way the glass of bourbon hangs loosely between two long fingers gives the impression of deep confidence. The planes of his face are hard, but the blue flicker of his eyes is intrigued and amused. In your slightly blurry vision his curly, reddish-brown hair catches the light in a golden halo.

When he opens his mouth to speak the dark red fragrance of Blood spills out; that immediately focuses your mind some. Either this guy had just been to the dentist and pulled a tooth, _or_ he might just be a bloodsucking fiend of the night, just like you. (In your current condition you can't really decide which is more unlikely; a dentist's surgery keeping open at this hour or a beautiful monster happening to sit down next to you in the middle-of-nowhere-Roadside-Haven.)

"You alright there, love?" His voice is soft, low and that British accent makes your jaw clench. "You seem a bit tense." _No kidding!_

It feels like a mixture between a taunt and genuine concern. Your tenseness is written in every line of your body, he couldn't have missed it. Plus, he just caught you ogling him in a not very subtle way. Those eyes though, they are roaming your face just as hungrily.

Your leg starts to rapidly twitch up and down.

"I'm just fine," is your snippy reply. Your eyes finally find their way back to the glass in front of you. _Son-of-a–_ It's empty.

While you are considering how to best solve the empty glass-problem the Blood licks his lips and exhales slightly in some kind of minimalist laugh. You only catch it in the corner of your eye but still have to restrain yourself not to turn again and drink up his cheekbones with your eyes.

Suddenly he reaches over and puts his hand over yours. His hand is cool but dry and very… solid? He just holds it there and you move your fingers slightly just to– _Wait a minute!_ It takes you a few seconds to react but then your hand jerks away with a speed that smells of fear and violence. Letting handsy strangers (dentist's patients/vampires) touch you in seedy bars before you've even been introduced? Nope, you do not think so.

He is still smiling – in fact even broader now – and lifting his hands slightly in a gesture of surrender.

"I'm Nicholas." It's as if he read your mind. _That name is just delicious._

(Is there such a thing as mind readers? You would not be surprised; there seems to be a new supernatural species hiding behind every other rock, just waiting to jump out when you are least expecting it.)

When you don't answer he tries again. "Come on. Ignoring me is just rude. Especially after all that staring." He tilts his head to the right to keep your face in sight as you try to hide your heated cheeks behind long, wavy (but completely ruined by the rain) hair.

He reaches for you again. This time he puts one finger under your chin and carefully, but decisively, turns your face up and towards him again. _What is it with this guy? Has he never heard the words 'personal space'? _His eyes capture yours as he slowly lowers his hand.

"There you are. Now, what's your name, sweetheart?"

"Caroline"

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Caroline." He doesn't just speak your name; it rolls out of his mouth so carefully and precisely, (and swept in that delirium-inducing smell) in a way you have never heard before. His voice caresses every syllable and you can't help but give him a large, genuine smile.

_Nope, nope – just no._ Letting handsome Brits charm your drunken ass when you are miles from home and haven't told anyone where you were going? (If you are being completely honest with yourself, you don't really know where you are either. You kind of just drove, choosing direction based on which way looked nicer…)

"Look, Nick or whatever, you seem nice and all but I think I'm just gonna' leave now."

Sliding down from your barstool in a slightly less than ladylike fashion, you try to give him another polite smile, but the effect is kind of ruined by the way you frown when you try to keep your legs from wobbling too much. Nick looks disappointed. _You__ try to smile and stand after having… how many drinks was it? One, two… three, four, five…_ You might be missing the point.

He is at your side before you have even take three steps towards the door; gently taking your left arm and placing a hand at the small of your back. You try to step away from him again, but coordination is a problem at the moment.

"You have to stop that!" you hiss, vexed.

He looks at you in surprise. "Stop what exactly?"

"The touching! I can do this just fine on my own!"

When you try to shake him off once again, his grip tightens around your arm. You blink at his hand and then up at his face. (Somewhere in the back of your mind you register that you are almost the same height. Well, when you're in your heels anyway.)

"No, _sweetheart_, I don't think you can."

His eyes are no longer soft. His jaw is set. There is something… restrained in his voice that makes a shiver travel up your spine, from where his hand is resting low on your back. It suddenly seems like a good idea to just humour him. When you stop struggling he relaxes a bit and continues leading you out of the Haven and into the darkness beyond.

"So, where am I taking you?"

"My car."

He steers where you point, but glances at you concernedly. "You are not thinking of driving, I hope." The little car beeps and blinks twice as if to welcome you back. The cool roof of the car feels nice against your warm cheek and you rest your arms around your head.

"Nope."

Apparently he manages to decode your mumble because he opens a door and manages to get you into the back seat with all limbs intact. You blink at him in what you hope is a thankful way and he responds by stroking a few disobedient blond hairs from you eyelashes and cupping your warm cheek with his cool hand. _Maybe he is not a rapist murderer after all. That's nice._

"Are you going to be alright here?"

"Mhm."

His dubious frown does not stop him from backing out of the car and grabbing the door. Before it closes you think you can hear a soft "Good night, Caroline".

.

ooooooooooooooooooo

.

The sunlight tries to melt your eyeballs through your closed lids; at least that's how it feels when you wake up. You have been using your arm as a pillow and now it protests loudly in the form of a thousand pins and needles all over your skin. No hangover though. Being a vampire certainly makes some things much better (your arm will be better too, as soon as you stop crushing it with your head). Vampirism does have its downsides though. There is something small, but insistent, chewing on your insides and someone seems to have poured sand down your throat during the night. Your eyes blink open. _So damned thirsty._

Vainly you run your fingers through your blond tresses and make an attempt to smooth the wrinkles from your cute, blue top. It has absolutely no effect. Exhaling in a defeated sigh you reach to unlock the door and get out. Unfortunately your plan falls apart in the very first step – it seems you never locked the door in the first place. _Oops._ The second part of the plan is also a no-go. Something is blocking the door. You use a bit more force and are rewarded with a muffled grunt before almost falling face first out onto the asphalt parking lot with a somewhat undignified yelp.

"What?" you manage; very confused at the sight of a guy sitting on the ground outside. Well, maybe he is more… lying on the ground outside; having been forcefully shoved away from the car. There is a glint of gold on his finger, and a glint of gold in his hair.

"Nick?"

He pushes himself up to his knees and dusts his hands off. Those eyes turn to you; just as blue as you remember. _Not to mention those lips–_

"She remembers." He's smirking.

As he rises to his feet you stare incredulously at the dusty (formerly dark) jeans he's wearing.

"You sat here all night?"

"Well, this is a shady place at night and you seemed a bit–" he takes a moment to consider his words, a knuckle softly touched to his lips "drunk off your arse."

Sun-gilded eyebrows rise in amusement as he tries to suppress a smile at your disgruntled pout. _Is he chiding me, like I'm some child? Who does he think he it?_ He is older than you, no doubt, but you can't think about that at the moment because he looks just wonderful in the morning sunlight. _A wonderful stalker._ Maybe you just touched upon something important there. _Where could he be from? Where is he going?_ Nope, that wasn't it…

"You look fine, radiant even, if I'm allowed to say so-"

Insults (well, maybe more like harsh truths) directly followed by over the top (and obviously false) compliments (you self-consciously touch your hair)? Narrowing your eyes you prepare to call him out on his tactics, but he just raises one gold-encircled finger is front of your face and quickly continues his speech.

"-But maybe we should make sure that that hangover stays away. Hmm?"

The raised finger turns into an outstretched hand.

"Breakfast?" he smiles uncertainly. This seems strange from a man who, from what little you've seen, has far more confidence than can be altogether healthy.

For just a second your eyes find the clear blue sky, as you consider the situation; then they settle on his hand. It's just a hand. (A man's hand, with no red on it.) In a few short hours that hand has intrigued you, held you gently, guided you, grabbed you hard, helped you, caressed your, silenced you. And here it is, offering you breakfast. A decision is made.

Your fingers gently brush his. "Sure." He encloses them with a smile.

As he pulls you from the shadowy interior of the car the sun slides over your limbs like a yellow curtain. You squeeze his hand harder.

"As long as you're buying." With a flip of your blonde disaster (a.k.a. "hair") you let go of him and make for the Roadside Haven with confident strides.

The soft laugh from behind you is barely audible over the click of your heels.

"Wouldn't have it any other way."

.

Some days life just smiles at you.

.

* * *

.

**Note: **If I was a person who could be trusted to do things on time (or at all) I would say that this is the prologue of something longer. At it is... I just don't know. I'm not good at writing, this just kind of happened. I would like it to continue, but I've heard that you can't always get what you want.


End file.
